


Tap Twice

by PhryneFicathon, PromisesArePieCrust



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-10 18:08:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13506969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhryneFicathon/pseuds/PhryneFicathon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PromisesArePieCrust/pseuds/PromisesArePieCrust
Summary: Phryne helps Jack with some professional development. A little friends-to-lovers, hurt/comfort fluff.





	Tap Twice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deedeeinfj](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deedeeinfj/gifts).



“Tap if it hurts, remember! Tap twice!” she sang out. Jack dimly heard, but was distracted by the formidable Miss Fisher struggling between his legs.

“No Jack, now swing your legs over this way.” He was breathing hard, much harder than he would have imagined given what seemed like not so much movement from the outside. He groaned. This had seemed like such a good idea when she had suggested it.

“Are you alright, Inspector? Remember, I can’t feel what you’re feeling.” 

Thank goodness, he thought, squirming a little at the lack of space between them. He retreated his torso slightly from hers, and she continued through his fog, “Being stubborn and proud about it only gets you bunged-up joints. Tap twice if it hurts!”

The mat beneath them smelled of cleaning supplies and their sweat, amplified by the sweat and cleaning supplies of the rest of the gym. He was disoriented, unaccustomed to being this far out of his element and this thoroughly exercised. But he also felt like giggling wildly. Rolling around like children on athletic mats, and with the pesky woman who had been peeping into his daydreams lately—it seemed utterly surreal. Surreal, absurd... and inconceivably fun. 

Judo was more like chess than he expected. In just the afternoon that they’d been here rolling around, working techniques, he found she had preferred strategies, and he was enjoying trying to figure out her next move so that he could counter. He felt giddy, and laughed out loud. 

“Are you trying to insult me, Jack?” she pouted as she panted with exertion, misunderstanding his laughter. Her pressure on his arm and shoulder was firm and he knew she was creating some leverage with her body that might get him in trouble. “Hardly, Miss Fisher,” he said, trying to remember the flip she had showed him a few hours ago. Had they been sparring that long, he thought, looking at the large gym clock and surprised to see the late hour. He was straining, sure he could figure his way out of this tangle, but, she was right, he did feel a little too proud to tap out so soon into this bout. And, he admitted, too proud to be submitted by a woman who probably weighed 50 pounds less than he did. He struggled and sweated and focused, until he heard a sickening pop from his elbow. He shouted and looked up to see the sweat over her lip and her look of surprise. Bloody hell.

He’d been noticing how pretty she was lately; of course he’d noticed before, but now he felt it. Now the thought had become more persistent and he would more resolutely force himself to dismiss it. He would tentatively accept her friendly offers on occasion, but really he knew it was better to hang back. He felt there was no harm in their friendship, and took some pains, as a newly single man, to remind himself that friendship was the best course for him. There were certain things he knew about his health and well being, and investing in what he knew would be a tumultuous ride, the highs and lows of romance, was not something he was prepared to do. He could enjoy her wit and even her charm from a distance, but as soon as they got close enough for him to feel wistful or to linger too long in the scent of her perfume, it was time for him to pull away. Close enough to make eye contact--albeit progressively more heated eye contact-- was close enough. He could feel the simmer of that from across the room. No need to insert himself directly into the flames. 

Still, her offer to show him judo was perfectly reasonable in context. He’d accepted the offer gladly, and even if he’d had an inkling that it might involve...contact...on her person...he’d assumed that the gym, the series of exercises, the whole endeavor would retain the professional air that he relied on. She was his colleague, showing him something useful to their profession. There was a structure and professional pride involved; he was safe in that.

Seeing her in her gym clothes was his first shock, the first time he realised he might not be as safe as he had assumed. He didn’t know why it should be a shock--did he expect to see her in sequins and feathers? No. But an unadorned Phryne Fisher in unrestrictive clothing made him feel a lot more than he had expected. 

Until she wrapped her legs around him, which was then a lot _more_ of feeling a lot more than he had expected. “This is a closed guard,” she had said, “and is pretty dangerous for you.” “Colleague,” he repeated to himself as she showed him exactly how dangerous a closed guard was for him. He swallowed.

He gradually had gotten used to all of the startling, pleasurable and uncomfortable things that were happening on the mat, and and was doing rather well for a time. She was a good teacher and he was eager both to learn and to impress her. As a colleague. As a matter of professional pride.

And now her brow was furrowed as he stared up at her helplessly from the mat clutching his elbow. Fortunately there was too much noise and distraction to feel the full effect of the hyperextension, though he knew he would feel it in not too long. She scuttled to her feet, shouting “I’ll see if I can find some ice,” as she dashed off the mat, which left him to sort out what he was supposed to do next.

It probably wasn’t that bad, he reasoned, catching his breath. The crunching pop probably sounded worse than it was. He could probably expect to….no, could not bend it, that was, in fact, a bad idea. Damn.

He groaned and tried to stand, awkwardly climbing up from the ground while favoring the hurt arm. He sighed. Why hadn’t he tapped?

* * *

“Turn here. It’s just up here on the left.” His voice sounded weak to his ears. She had barely spoken either at the doctor’s or on the drive to his home, which put him on alert since it was so out of character. Was he meant to apologise for getting hurt?

As she pulled up to his home, he reached across his lap to open the car door with his good arm and must have made a noise of discomfort, as she quickly rounded the car and opened the door for him. “Thank you,” he managed, though he was sure it sounded as annoyed as he felt.

He fumbled for his house key, which was, naturally, in the coat pocket of his hurt arm. “Here, I can help,” she said, not waiting for his reply as she deftly slid her hand into his coat pocket. “Which key is it?” she asked when she’d retrieved them, holding the keys up to the street light.

“It’s not necessary, really, Miss Fisher--” 

“--Horsefeathers. You couldn’t even get your coat on by yourself. I can call someone for you--”

“I can call someone, thank you.” His voice was sharper than he intended, but she really was just being pushy at this point. He did not need her this near to him right now. And he could certainly work this out on his own. But she just threw darts at him with her eyes and turned on her heel, trying the first of the three likely keys. 

She let herself into his home and he followed her in, not so much acquiescing to her pushiness as trying to make the best of an annoying situation. She was, after all, good company, and he was in a fair amount of pain. If she weren’t here he could imagine how he would be dealing with that pain; this was healthier.

“Can I get you some water?” he asked, slipping his coat off and gingerly sliding it around his sling. How he was going to get undressed tonight he didn’t even want to think about. 

She looked at him, squinting her eyes slightly as if she were considering something. His heart sped up.

“You haven’t eaten anything,” she said finally. She was right. They met at the gym at what should have been just after lunch, but he’d hurried through some tea and toast to meet her on time. It was now past eight. His discomfort distracted him from his hunger, but he probably would feel better with something in his stomach.

“I’ll manage,” he mumbled. Was he embarrassed? He couldn’t work it out, but the very-slight mothering was wearing on him.

“Is that all you want to do?”

“Sorry?”

“Is ‘managing’ all you’d like to do?”

“What are my other options?” he said, exasperated.

“Enjoying yourself, for one” she said a little aggressively in response to his exasperation. “Enjoying yourself and feeling happy.” He nearly scoffed, but realised it was true, he really had not considered enjoyment; in fact it sounded simple and silly. But he began to wonder--did he really believe that life was only supposed to be a struggle, only a series of difficulties to be overcome? Had he become that brittle? He floundered for something to say, but only found “I’ll grab that water,” and turned toward the kitchen. Opening the cupboard, he heard her behind him. He paused, considering where to direct the conversation, how to be the best host in this situation, trying to order his thoughts. He poured water into two glasses, turned around and handed one to her, their fingers brushing. He noticed what must have been some of her perfumed lotion on her fingers. He resisted the urge to sniff the tiny bit that transferred to him.

“You were doing well before you got hurt. I think you might become formidable.” She broke the silence as she sipped her water, making peace. 

“Well, next time I hope I can do better,” he replied, “and remember to tap in a timely manner.” He was aiming for self-deprecation and she seemed to approve, smiling slightly. He was aware that he was very much looking forward to a next time. 

“Good,” was all she said in response and turned toward the ice box. She hesitated only a little before intruding into his ice box, and he panicked slightly, trying to remember if there might be anything embarrassing in there. He took a quick peek over her shoulder to see if there was any rotting food or bare shelves to hint more at the life of lack she had accused him of. He really didn’t want to seem like someone who didn’t enjoy himself, and he was regretting not having followed up on the conversation about ‘managing’ versus ‘enjoying.’ Maybe they could discuss it later. He was poking around at these questions of delight, enjoyment and privation when she turned back to him, having successfully extricated some not-too-shabby cheese from the ice box. “That’ll do,” he said, moving to grab a knife to slice some apples from the counter. Holding the knife in his good hand, he steadied the apple with hand of his lame arm, but let out a hiss of discomfort at the grip. “It’s going to be a long eight weeks,” she said, gently touching his hurt elbow and taking the knife from him. He shivered at the kindness in her touch, impressed it could affect him through his bandages, shirt and sling. She began slicing the apples and cheese while he busied himself with the teapot, unavoidably glancing at her periodically as she prepared the food. 

After a light meal and conversation punctuated with easy laugher, his grumpiness was gone. Watching her speak, Jack was distractedly remembering a poem by Lord Byron. He’d forgotten specifics, but there was a refrain he remembered and at the time it had bothered him, something to the effect of “friendship is love without his wings.” This had turned into such a beautiful, friendly evening, and certainly was uplifting. Why then would friendship be a love that had no wings? Maybe it wouldn’t leave as easily was the idea, but it seemed derogatory. The love of his friends, of this friend sitting here, did not feel flightless; it felt full and soaring. His colleague and friend, he thought, with great satisfaction. Friendship is not love without wings. Friendship is love, full stop.

Eventually the conversation ebbed and he stood and cleared the table. He was doing his best to wash up and realising that with the single arm it was a hopeless task tonight. She came to the counter next to him and reached for the dishrag. Their hands brushed again and he began to wonder if it had been purposeful, either on his part or hers. They both stopped. “I can dry,” he said quietly after several moments. Their movements continued fluidly after that heated stutter.

When they finished washing up, he turned to her and tugged slightly on her fingers. She moved close to him. No seductive quip, no wry zinger, no frightened movements back to their respective corners. He wondered how this was going to play out. 

“I don’t want to disrupt your life,” she said into his chest after several moments.

He closed his eyes and touched her waist.

“And I don’t want to disrupt yours,” he said quietly. 

It was not what he had imagined her saying when she was inches from him, but it was a remarkably insightful thing for her to say. Disruption and tumult was the largest part of his hesitation to lean in to their attraction, not out of fear precisely, but out of preference. He had struggled to make his life the kind that he wanted, never more so than this past year, and it seemed, from the outside, like she probably had too. Why interrupt something that was working? 

He knew the answer to that, of course. He suspected she did too. They would be willing to take a risk, to disrupt their lives, because they were curious about the world and wanted to know what comes next, always wanting to grow, to become, to feel more. He knew that rationally, but did he have to feel ‘more’ exactly right now? It could wait, couldn’t it? 

They stayed stationary for a while, touching in very subtle movements of thumb swipes. He opened his eyes and saw her near him with her eyes closed, breathing steadily. Her breath smelled slightly sweet and he wanted to inhale as much of it as he could. 

“I should get home,” she said, her face flushed. Jack cleared his throat. “Thank you for the...for the evening,” he wobbled slightly as he walked her to the entry to find her jacket and hat. “Yes, it was my pleasure!” she said with slightly too much breath, making her sound nervous. “It was a pleasure,” he agreed, a little bashful to use the word. “I had seen a demonstration of judo in Sydney as a boy. I hadn’t thought about it for years.”

“It’s fun, isn’t it? It’s a great marriage of intellectual and physical work. I love learning an opponent’s favorite moves or guessing what they might prefer based on body type.”

“Yes, it felt like chess.”

“Chess, exactly! Or like working on cases. Puzzling over clues for a bit, then run, climb, dodge--”

“ _You_ climb and dodge; scaling walls and running along rooftops was not previously part of my repertoire,” he teased; her eyes twinkled with pride. 

“Well then, I’ll aim to continue to improve your repertoire, Inspector.” 

“I hope so,” he whispered.

He reached over and slid his hand to her neck, barely recognizing the movements of his body as belonging to him. Her eyes showed a slight surprise and then closed as she leaned into him, sliding her hand up the back of his head to grab his hair. He felt a slight tug and first groaned in pleasure, then, when she pressed herself against the hurt arm that rested between them, groaned again in discomfort. She pulled away a little, smiling, breathing “Sorry,” before continuing to kiss him. And kiss him, and kiss him. Her tongue reached out to his, and he took it in, then offered his. She made a noise in response that he felt clear to his toes. She dropped her undonned coat, pulling him to her with both hands. He made room for her against his chest, awkwardly sliding her between himself and the sling; her enthusiasm grew, and she bumped against his arm several times, though the thrill of her nearness, her smells, her tongue distracted him from the sharp pain. Finally she gave one enthusiastic grab too many. He tapped her twice. 

She stopped mid-kiss, a little confused, and then laughed. She extricated herself from his embrace slowly and picked up her discarded jacket. “Another bout when you have mended, then,” she suggested, smiling. 

“I look forward to it,” he replied, weaving his fingers into hers, feeling the warmth of his own happy, satisfied smile.


End file.
